


Vinny isn't traded

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Vinny gets a life [8]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4166712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Two Anglo goalies,” Thomas says, finally. “RDS is going to shit itself.”</p><p>“Montreal media’s worse than high school, don’t call yourself a fucking Anglo,” Fournier says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vinny isn't traded

Fourns gets back on track, eventually. They start scaling Thomas’ games back, first sharing half the weight, then, as Fournier remains consistent, back to his typical share. It’s hard to go from starter to swing to back-up, no matter how used to back-up you are, but Fourns is nudging his shoulder again, calling him Bambi again, inviting him for dinner and playdates. He apologised, slightly embarrassed looking, and said Chloe had bawled him out. It could be worse.

They make the playoffs, too, comfortably in the middle of the pack, play their first game in Ottawa, who nudged into fourth seed, ahead of them by a single point. Fournier plays well, well enough that even though they lose, the fans are happy to dismiss it as home-ice advantage, cheerfully optimistic. They lose game two as well, and the enthusiasm is more muted, but again, home-ice advantage. They’re vindicated by the games in Montreal, two tight wins, a series tied up.

They go to Ottawa and lose. Lapointe’s been in the foulest mood Thomas has ever seen him, prickly enough even the vets are steering clear of him. Even Gagnon seems wary of him. The room, which has a grit tooth response to the Sens, perhaps not to the level of the Bruins or Nordiques, but certainly far from warm, feels smothering when they’re preparing for game six, Lapointe looking vaguely murderous, Fournier stone-faced and avoiding catching anyone’s eye.

They’re shelled out, a 6-1 game that leaves no doubt as to who deserves to go forward. The cameras are all focused on Lapointe and Riley in the handshake line, Riley’s hand on the back of Lapointe’s neck, but Thomas, behind Fournier, focuses on the way Cesar butts his head against Fournier’s, masks nudging one another, saying something too quiet to catch that makes all the air go out of Fournier’s body. Fourns looks so small, next to Cesar, and when Thomas clasps hands with Cesar after, all he sees is kindness.

The Sens are out the next round, which is a relief in some ways, because there is genuine antipathy there, but also a sense of disappointment. If you lose, you want to lose to the best. The group scattered pretty fast, anyone who didn’t live in Montreal during the summers getting out of town, not wanting to linger when they were first round exits again, face fans disappointed and a little angry. Or sad.

Sad was the worst. Feeling sad about it, which Thomas did, unlike Fourns, who seemed to be mad at himself, and Anton, who was furious with the entire rank and file of the Sens. But also the fans who weren’t angry, really, just resigned, a bitter sadness. Every fan is disappointed when their team loses, but it feels worse, in Montreal, like there’s a pall over the entire city.

Sudbury’s a relief, at first. He sleeps on sheets worn thin with washing, eats home-cooked meals, recharges, as if the playoffs took something out of him physically, as if he didn’t just open the door for the players getting off, hand out fist bumps and consolation depending on the final score.

The Cup comes and goes while he gets back into his offseason routine, then the Draft, and Free Agent Frenzy approaches with the most menace it’s ever had.

Thomas ends up back in Montreal before he planned on it, because his parents are worried, he can tell they are, always following the Habs news, official and unofficial, trade rumours everywhere, and being around them is only making things worse.

They make a trade the day he gets into town, a second line forward from the Blackhawks, who have plenty of offensive depth to speak of, but a dearth behind the blue line and especially in net. In exchange, they’re taking Fournier and one of the Habs defensive prospects. When Thomas finds out, at first all he feels is cold.

Thomas calls Fournier, but he gets one ring, so either Fournier is on the phone or he’s turned it off

 _sorry vinny_ , Thomas gets from Anton within minutes.

 _this is bullshit_ , Thomas replies, anger breaking through the chill, though he knows it’s a good trade. They’re comfortable defensively, but need firepower, and taking Fournier out of the picture means they can make some moves to get a younger goalie, a clear starter, so that Thomas can spend more time on the bench, where they want him.

He follows up with a text to Fournier, _call me :(_ , and Fournier does a couple of hours later.

“Hey Tommy,” Fournier says, and he sounds so tired Thomas doesn’t bother to tell him he doesn’t like being called that. Fournier knows, anyway, he was the one who got the first barrage of stuff thrown at him. And the second. Probably the third, too.

“It’s a smart trade,” Fournier says, when Thomas is quiet a moment too long.

“I know,” Thomas says, sulky. “You guys in Montreal?”

“Where else would we be?” Fournier asks.

Nowhere, really. The girls were born in Montreal, Chloe’s from there, Fourns from not so far away. The thought makes Thomas sad. Sadder.

“I can hear you pouting through the phone, Bambi,” Fournier says.

“I’m not pouting,” Thomas mumbles.

“Come to dinner if you’re in Montreal soon,” Fournier says. “Chloe and the girls would love to see you. I’ll make sangria.”

“I’m in Montreal,” Thomas says.

Fournier’s quiet for a second. “Had a feeling?” he asks.

“Thought it’d be me,” Thomas admits. They wouldn’t have gotten much for him, though, and this clears the way for something big. Unusually, there are a few good goalies up for free-agency, everyone cautious about renewal, about blowing money. Montreal’s got cap space, unlike a lot of other teams, and a massively profitable team, unlike the others who have the space, and the set-up’s obvious. They’ll probably make the stretch to grab Connors, 32, but with a 9.23 last season, and more importantly, a 2.20 GAA on a generally awful team. The Habs blogs are probably buzzing with this prediction. Thomas doesn’t read them, because he knows what he should stay away from for his own good, but he doesn’t need to. He knew, the second the news hit, that the Habs were angling for Connors. Fourns probably knew even before; he’s smarter than Thomas.

“Two Anglo goalies,” Thomas says, finally. “RDS is going to shit itself.”

“Montreal media’s worse than high school, don’t call yourself a fucking Anglo,” Fournier says, chiding, and Thomas laughs a little wetly.

“I don’t want you to go,” he says finally.

“Me either, Vinny,” Fournier says. “Shit happens. Come over for dinner tomorrow. Bring wine. Good wine, this time. I’m turning that shit you brought last time into sangria.”

“I’ll be there,” Thomas says, then, “I should let you go. The Hawks probably want to talk to you.”

“Fucking Blackhawks,” Fournier says, and Thomas is smiling when he hangs up, though it fades soon enough.

Thomas brings a good wine this time, at least he’s pretty sure: he trailed after an associate at the SAQ, who explained things above his head, all ‘hint of cherry’ and ‘wonderful year’, and finally grabbed a bottle of something pretty expensive but not ridiculously so.

Fourns doesn’t raise an eyebrow at him like last time, so maybe he did succeed, but maybe it’s just an extension of the way he looks so, so tired. There’s cardboard in the front hall, not yet assembled into boxes.

“You would not believe the shit it takes to get kids enrolled in another country,” Fourns says, and no, Thomas probably couldn’t imagine. The girls are cheerful enough about it, surprisingly, tell Thomas all about how they’re going on an adventure, and not many people speak French there, so it’d be like they have a secret language all their own. How, just like their dolls, they’ll be American Girls, and they can have another one for the trip. How they’ll come back to Montreal, it’s really just an extended vacation, and they’ll learn all new things while they’re there.

Chloe looks almost as tired. “Michel’s resorted to bribery,” Chloe tells him, tugging Thomas into the kitchen with her hand curled around his wrist. “Help me make the salad.”

Thomas helps with the salad, then helps himself to the sangria Fournier promised, brings a glass out to Fournier, who’s manning the grill, charring chicken and carefully avoiding charring hot dogs. Fourns clasps his shoulder before taking it. 

“Best alternate a guy could ask for,” he says, and when Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Kay,” Thomas says, choked, and is composed by the time Chloe brings the salad out, the girls practically stepping on her heels. The hot dogs go on their plates, and they’ve scarfed half of them down before Thomas has finished putting salad on his own plate. The chicken’s good, and the salad’s pretty decent since Chloe directed and Thomas just put it together, a foolproof endeavour. Vanessa somehow finishes her meal without taking a breath, catches Thomas up on summer camp, her gymnastics, and Olivia’s hockey (without letting Olivia get a word in). In a couple months they’re going to be gone, and Tony’s right; the girls probably won’t even remember calling him Uncle Vinny.

Fourns will come back, which is an assurance Thomas wouldn’t usually have. The Fourniers’ lives are here, but there’s no guarantee that when they come back Thomas will still be on the roster.

He excuses himself from the table, goes to the ground floor bathroom, splashes water on his face. This is something he should be used to by now, but he never does get used to it, and Fournier and him are a team in themselves, a tandem that works, and there’s no guarantee Thomas will find himself in another. But more than that, than harmony in the room, Fourns’ home is as familiar to him as his billet houses were, and he’s no longer a guest, if he ever really was, is put to work wrangling the kids or making a salad or fixing the deck.

Fourns is family, or close enough, and Thomas remembers Anton telling him that team wasn’t friendship, Vinny obviously excepted, but Thomas doesn’t agree. They put on some kid’s show after dinner while Fourns does the dishes, and Vanessa falls asleep half in his lap, Olivia with her head on Chloe’s, the both of them unusually still, sticking close to them instead of wandering away to multitask watching and whatever game they’ve cooked up together this time. It’s barely eight.

“They’re tired,” Chloe tells him, soft. “It’s too much excitement.”

Thomas curves his hand over the back of Vanessa’s head, her hair silky against his palm. Chloe reaches over, squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back.

“You are always going to be welcome in our home, wherever it may be,” Chloe tells him, looking him in the eye, and he nods, tight, before he looks away, strokes his fingers through Vanessa’s hair.

“Think they’re going to forget me?” Thomas asks.

“You just have to get them the best presents,” Chloe tells him seriously. “They are easily bribed.”

Thomas smothers a laugh. They take the girls up to bed eventually, Fourns and Thomas, since they’ve gotten too heavy for Chloe to carry, tall and rangy, all limbs like their dad. The girls don’t stir once, and they go back into the backyard and drink the bottle of wine Thomas bought, which Fournier approves of and Thomas thinks tastes like wine. It’s mostly silent, but it isn’t the loaded kind, just emotional exhaustion. They’re far enough from the city that you can see stars.

“You can stay tonight,” Chloe offers, and Thomas wants to, wants to take the guest room that he defaults to, wake up too early to the girls creeping into the room, sotto voiced whispering asking him if he’s awake, since they’ve been specifically told not to wake him if he isn’t already up. Gradually increasing the volume of the question until he’s got no choice but to be awake.

The messy comfort of breakfast, where something will usually get spilled and at least one of the girls will no longer like something she did last week, where the bacon will be too crispy and the toast not crispy enough, because Fourns is good at cooking but bad at breakfast.

He wants to stay, but it will probably just make things harder in the long run, so instead he goes, Chloe burying her face in his chest when he hugs her, Fourns looking at him very solemnly and then pressing kisses to both his cheeks, one to his forehead, like he does to his girls, to Chloe, absent affection. “You are like an annoying little brother to me,” he tells Thomas.

“I’m not annoying,” Thomas protests.

“Shush, I have a speech,” Fourns says, and Thomas obediently presses his lips together.

“You are like an annoying little brother to me,” Fournier repeats, and gives Thomas a look daring him to interrupt. Thomas stays quiet. “And you are always going to be. I don’t know where you’re going to be when we come back, but even if you are no longer with the Canadiens, you will always have a place to stay in Montreal.” He pauses. “Thomas Vincent, if you start crying I am taking the offer back.”

“I’m trying not to,” Thomas mumbles.

Fourns tugs him in, and Thomas tucks his face in his neck.

“You’ll do well,” he tells Thomas. “Remember, whoever comes in to replace me, that whole room adores you. You’re still going to be everyone’s favourite. I got used to that early.”

“Like an annoying younger brother?” Thomas asks.

“For some reason they don’t think you’re annoying,” Fournier says, and Thomas smiles.

“Okay, go home, let an old man get his sleep,” Fournier says, and Thomas pulls back. Chloe’s left the hall, presumably to give them privacy, and Fourns kicks him out with one last ruffle of his hair and slap of his ass.

When Thomas gets home it’s almost midnight, and he feels guilty about it, but calls Anton anyway. Anton sounds groggy when he answers, not even saying hello, just starting with, “You okay, Tommy?”

It’s twice Thomas has been called Tommy today, and the second time he hasn’t really minded.

“No,” Thomas says, after a moment of silence, and tucks his knees up to his chest while Anton says “Oh Vinny,” and then, “How the shit do I do moral support on the phone?”

“I don’t know,” Thomas says. “Just stay on the line?”

“For as long as you need me,” Anton confirms, and Thomas sits there for awhile, one hand holding his phone to his ear, the other curled around his legs. He listens to Anton breathing.

“Thanks,” he says, finally. He doesn’t know how long it’s been.

“Sleep well,” Anton says, and Thomas doesn’t, really, but he sleeps better than he thought he would.

**Author's Note:**

> [Things are happening on tumblr. ](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com)


End file.
